


The Aftermath and More

by TarTarIcing



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarTarIcing/pseuds/TarTarIcing
Summary: Watch Price and Gaz deal with Soap's mounting PTSD. Post-MW3 where Soap and Gaz are alive.





	The Aftermath and More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_12:00 P.M.  
London, England_

Soap MacTavish rolled around in the sheets, shielding his eyes from the sun. For a cloudy city, London was awfully bright for this time of day. He slowly rubbed his eyes and grabbed his phone. It felt heavy. _He_ felt _heavy_. Feeling chained to the bed, he aimlessly scrolled on his phone; fingers dragging on the icons of people he used to know. Facebook used to be a reminder of home.

Facebook was now just a sycophantic blur of civilian mundanity, biased playthings, and a clear indication that people have moved on.

The worst of it was the autoplaying videos, especially the news videos. The one about guns, the ones about war and violence and how they keep sensationalizing the nitty gritty parts of war he kept trying to push back into his mind. _Gunshots. Screams. Smoke._ His heart raced at the sight of people running, missiles flying. _Guns. More guns. Interrogation. International politics. Lies… All fucking lies!_

“Soap… Soap?” A voice echoed out the door. Soap let go of the sheets and unclenched his teeth. He let his phone clumsily drop on the duvet. Small beads of sweat dotted his face.

“Good… morning? Afternoon? Price?” Soap gazed up at his former captain. Price was leaning at the door of his bedroom. The captain still sported his scraggly beard and a worn beret. His sweater had a faded logo of Manchester U along with pilled sweatpants. It contrasted Soap’s white shirt and plaid green boxers.

“You’re not there anymore.” Price reminded, voice with a tinge of comfort, “You’re in London.” The captain remembered that look, a look that many had taken on in their time of service, including himself. He too remembered what it’s like to be back in civilization and feel isolated, taking a drag on his Villa Clara cigar.

It was the reason why he took him in after everything was done. His family was fractured due a horribly handled military history and divorce. Both sides were at fault and he could see why his protégé wanted no part of it.  After all, with Makarov and the other Four Horsemen, he was not in _any_ state to deal with civilian complexities.

Another man then pulled up behind Price, fingers draping over the older man’s shoulder. This man was wearing a Manchester U hoodie and darker sweatpants. He had a side swept black hair and a trimmed beard. The most recognizable feature to Soap was his baseball cap bearing the Union Jack. He was Gaz, someone who followed him from the SAS to the Task Force 141 then to hell and back.

“Afternoon, mate,” He greeted, shifting over to pat Soap on the head, “He’s awake now, innit?” Gaz went back to Price, arm around his former captain’s waist. Gaz, too had a fractured family torn by war and made a decision to stay with Price.

“Yeah,” Price agreed, butting out his cigar on the old wooden panel of the door frame, “Get the fuck off Facebook. We’re going on a run.”

* * *

Out of all the things to make Soap happy, it was running. He didn’t know if it was because he was channeling his bad feelings into something relatively peaceful, or that it was an exercise that reminded him of his old life, or he could imagine his old enemies ganging up on him. Or it was something he just liked. _Or was it the fact that pounding of his heart reached his ears and blocked the torrential wave of thoughts? The thoughts of Makarov, his allies living or dead, guns, fire, explosions, death, more tangoes, ON YOUR SIX-_

“Soap wait up!” Gaz gasped from behind, somewhat breathless from sprinting up behind him, “Don’t leave us old geezers behind!” He chuckled at the sight of the youngest running away from them, giving him a grand slap on the shoulder.

“…Sorry.” The Scotsman jerked into standing, “I really like to run.” What kind of answer was that?

“What kind of thoughts?” Price also caught up to him and Gaz.

“Just… things. Let’s keep running, I wanna earn some pints after this!” Soap sprinted forward. They were in the downtown area, weaving between people and objects. The noisier the crowd got, the faster he sprinted. All three were hard-pressed to stay behind.

“You do not run for that squirrel’s piss he calls whiskey,” Gaz muttered, catching up to the youngest.

“Too right, mate.” Price agreed, following.

* * *

_7:00 P.M_

“Oy, Price, you got the reservation for Nando’s?” Gaz stepped out of the walk-in closet, wearing a dark navy slacks, a dusty faded yellow shirt, an olive jacket, and his trademark hat.

“Why the bloody hell does Nando’s need a reservation?” Soap’s voice piqued in confusion, “Can you tell me why bloody Nando’s of all places?” Hangers were heard rustling through the closet as he struggled to pick a proper outfit. Not that he knew what was a proper civilian outfit any who. Why was there so many clothes?

“Because the bloody internet exposed the damn place and it’s now crowded to shit. It’s just our bloody luck that we got the more locked up one. **Price!** ”

“I GOT IT!” Price leapt out of the living room couch, throwing his hands down to the ground, as if he was slamming a heavy box, “I managed to get the last booth for the last two hours.”

“Why can’t we eat here?” Soap came out of the room wearing a grey hoodie and black jeans. He stood awkwardly, looking at Price and shifting towards him.

“Because as healthy home cooking is, it’s boring as fuck,” Gaz answered, “Also I talked to Price about this, you need to be around people again. Like not us or any other brethren, but normal people.”

“Also, it’s my treat.” Price added, “We all need it to be honest.”

“Too right, let’s hit the Metro.” The three men headed out into the night and on the Metro toward the Nando’s.

* * *

 

The Nando’s they entered in was beyond the imaginations of young lads and ladettes. Instead of dusty unpainted wood, there was red velvet lining the seats. Instead of garish black and white tile, there was crimson carpet. Instead of bright lighting and large windows, there was dim lighting and only two windows on the front. Yet the restaurant was packed to the brim like sardines in a can. The line was long, so Gaz tried to entertain Soap to the best of his ability. Soap bounced up and down in place while Gaz waited on his phone.

“Soap, it’s your turn on Scrabble,” Gaz reminded him as Soap bounced.

“I know,” Soap kept bouncing. He knew he should create a word, but he didn’t feel like it.

“Soap, stop bouncing,” Price admonished, “People are going to look at us.”

“Okay,” Soap continued. The people started to stare at him.

“That-that’s enough,” Price reply sternly. People started whispering.

“Okay.” The Scotsman started to lean on Price. The former captain was still shocked at the weight he bore on his shoulder, “I wanna go to the bathroom.” Soap stopped bouncing, thinking of why he couldn’t go there himself.

“We can go to the bathroom when we get a table.” Price noticed Soap’s clinginess at times. As much as he was annoyed, he knew it could be a coping mechanism, so he left it alone.

“Hey, it’s still your turn on Scrabble.” Gaz reminded. A tall blonde woman, possibly college-aged, moved in front of the three.

“So I have a reservation for three under a John Price?” She chirped, holding the clipboard. The bags under her eyes implied that she was juggling more than she chewed. She shuffled her feet towards the booth in the middle of the wall. Above the booth was a painting of a chicken, approximately seventeenth century or so. Price nodded and followed her as Soap held his hand to the table. To the point Soap was cuddling Price and pointing at the chicken.

“Chicken.” Soap commented.

“Yes, that’s a bloody chicken.” Price dryly replied. He petted Soap’s faux hawk, maybe the crowd was getting to him.

The hostess sucked air in through her teeth and exhaled through pursed lips, “Okay, what do you men like for tonight?” Her free hand clenched at the sight of Soap clinging onto to Price.

“We’ll have three quarter chickens, breast and wing, with Portuguese rice and macho peas,” Gaz ordered, giving a knowing look to the other two.

“I want a Nandino,” Soap commented, but he was rather hungry.

“A Nandino won’t fill you up. Just have this instead.” Gaz continue his order, “And three waters plea-“

“I wanna apple juice!”

“Two waters and an apple juice please.”

“Thank you, it’ll be on your way.” The hostess quickly turned around and briskly walked away with a pleading grimace on her face. After ten or so minutes, she came with their drinks. After three more, she arrived with the chicken dinners and then the men ate heartily.

* * *

 

However, Soap didn’t eat his Portuguese rice. He strangely didn’t want it for some odd reason despite eating it so many times in his life during different states of mind. Ironically, it was one of his favorite side dishes.

“Soap, eat your rice.” Price commanded, “It’s going to get cold.”

“Nu-uh,” Soap shook his head.

“Please finish your food.”

“No.”

“Are you full, Soap?” Gaz asked, trying another angle.

“No,” Soap answered.

“Well, you should eat it.”

“Yes, Soap, you should eat it.”

“No.” The Scotsman fidgeted, bouncing his foot on the floor rapidly.

“I don’t think it’s right to pay a take-home fee when it’s a bit of rice. You don’t want them to spend more money tonight,” A customer reminded Soap.

“No!” People had looked in his direction.

“Sir, I’m offering advice please,” Another customer added.

“EAT THE DAMN RICE, SOAP!” Price snapped.

“NO! NONONONO **NONONONONONO NO! NO! NO!** ” People began whispering and watching as Soap wailed and pounded the table. Gaz dragged Soap to the bathroom, leaving Price to bury his head in his hands, seething.

“What was that?”

“What is up with that man?”

“Is he daft?”

“Bloody veterans…” Multiple whispers of the crowd filled the air.

Gaz dragged Soap into the disabled stall, which was rather a fight because Soap could still wrestle Gaz into a wall. Soap was still screaming the entire time until Gaz found an opening and locked the door, pinning Soap to the wall and hugging him. The cockney shushed him until he started sobbing. He rubbed his back while he let him cry it out.

“I didn’t expect you to throw a tantrum, but just let it all out. Shhhh, it’s ok. Shhhh,” Gaz hushed him.

“I remember being forced,” Soap’s sobbing softened, “They made me do it, Gazzie.”

“Do what?” He softy asked, hoping it wasn’t prying.

“They made me do things I didn’t want to. But I had to get away.” As cryptic as that was, Gaz felt a pang of empathy. Maybe it was a hostage situation he wasn’t aware of.

“They’re gone now. It’s okay. Don’t cry.” Gaz almost choked back his tears.

Meanwhile, Price paid the entire tab plus a generous twenty-euro tip. When Soap calmed down, they all went home on an eerily silent Metro trip.

* * *

 

_9:00 A.M_

Gaz and Price woke up from their bed to fix some food. With the events of last night still fresh in their minds, they didn’t feel like eating much. They prepared some toast and butter with some piping hot Earl Grey tea. For Soap, they re-heated his Portuguese rice and left some tea for him. Price came in to wake up Soap, but he recoiled from under the covers.

“Hey, Soap. I’m sorry about yelling at you last night. It’s not your fault. Come out of the bed.”

Soap retreated further into the covers, after peeking at Price.

“Gaz, you do it. Soap won’t respond to me.” Price sighed, dejected. He dashed over to his cigar box and started to smoke one. Gaz ended up going into his room with the tea.

“Hey, Soap. It’s me, Gaz.” He went in softly, setting the tea and saucer down on the credenza, “I just wanna talk to ye.” He peeled the covers back, only to reveal Soap sitting up and staring blankly at him, “It’s okay. Price got mad but he’s very sorry,” He cooed, stroking the underside of his chin.

Soap only blinked twice, and then held the tea and sipped it wordlessly.

“You can talk, mate. I’m here.”

Soap still sipped his tea.

“Whatever is said in this room, stays in this room. Don’t worry.” The Scotsman still drank his tea and looked at Gaz.

‘ _Shit,’_ Gaz muttered to himself, ‘ _It’s worse than I thought. Wait, I have an idea…’_ The cockney left the room. He went into his and Price’s room and opened the drawers under the TV. He pulled out a white Wii and blew off the dust. Wiping it down with a tissue, he took it back to Soap’s room. Soap’s eyebrows rose as Gaz started connecting the system to his TV. He then went back to his room to dust off a Gamecube controller, closed the drawer, and plugged it in to the Wii. Using the controller, he selected a game called Super Mario Sunshine.

“Hey, play this,” Gaz handed the controller to Soap, “Talk to us when you’re comfortable, okay?” He went to the kitchen to get his rice, “Don’t forget to eat, mate.” He patted his back and went back into the kitchen.

“How goes it, Gaz?” Price sat at the table, still smoking his cigar. The cigar was at a shorter length now.

“Not good, not good at all,” Gaz sighed, grasping Price’s free hand in his, “He’s not talking. He’s aware of us and what’s here, but he’s not saying a word.” Soap’s laughter echoed from the room, blending with the video game, “He’s not pissed though.”

“But the lad’s scared shitless,” Price growled, “He recoils at the sight of me.” He took another drag of a cigar, “It’s my fault for yelling at him. It’s not the Soap we know. Our Soap wouldn’t go mute or mentally regress. I didn’t know Soap was harboring this much damage. The rate he’s going, we might have to turn him in to the NHS…”

“THE NHS IS CROWDED AS FUCK AS IT IS!” Gaz let go of Price’s hand, only to slam his fists down on the table, “It’s bloated and inefficient, but we can take him to a psychiatrist if things get out of hand. Not the NHS,” Gaz groaned, “No one like Soap should be in the NHS. They’re absolute bollocks with their vets.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped in his chair.

“You bring a good point, but it’s my fault I snapped at him. You know I don’t take crap, Gaz,” Price moved over, pulling Gaz into his lap and holding him tight, “Our benefits can only do so much. As futile as it is, I’m quite regretful I yelled at him. One more outburst from me and the NHS will take him away.”

Gaz started to feel Price’s arms. Of all the years he’d known Price, he knew that he wasn’t a soft or warm person. If Price was actually being cuddly, shit was actually going down. Otherwise, he’d express love by compliments, direct statements, gifts, and bending the rules. Gaz was the more physical one of the two, kissing his former captain on the lips.

“It’s not your fault, Price. You assumed that Soap was going to be same person you saw on the field.”

“He’s a hard bastard, so that’s why I thought it was okay to yell. He’s dealt with much worse. I’m just so baffled that he’s mentally regressing and becoming mute. He’d never be like this in a fight.”

“But the fight’s over.”

“I… just want him back. I, no, we want our old Soap back. I was thinking if I can just be myself that should be enough. I’m not saying you’re coddling him, but I feel you’re being too soft sometimes. Discipline shapes a man.”

“I don’t fucking scare him at least. Whatever I did for Simon is actually working for Soap.”

“Your little cousin was an angry psychopath! The man went out of Shepherd’s orders and terrified recruits. He _killed_ rabbits that wandered into the base. That’s an entirely different cricket game if I saw one.” The captain raised his cigar in contempt.

“No, it’s not. I stayed with Simon in his time with Task Force 141. You saw me use your location systems to find him. I tried my darndest to show that I cared. I gave him food and medicine, I listened to him, I gave him hugs and my approval. When Simon first was under Shepherd’s command, he was the angry psychopath you remember.”

“Ghost had the privilege of American healthcare. Soap only has us and the NHS.”

“Doesn’t matter. It took years and loads of support to get Simon where he was. I gave Soap that video game because I knew it worked on him. When I gave my little cousin video games, he stopped terrorizing people and breaking things. He even made a few friends too.”

“Right, Soap and Ghost became friends because they could play video games together.” Price blew smoke.

“See? My point is that PTSD is a bitch. A big bitch. A slag that comes on your tits in the worst way. Soap and Simon both have it equally bad.” Gaz concluded, “We have to help Soap. It’s going to take years to heal, like it did for Simon. It’s going to take a momentous effort, like it did for Simon. We really have to buckle down and try, _try_ , **_try_** again. Come hell or high water, we are not going to lose Soap. I lost Simon, his peace of mind, and his family due to war. _I am sure as hell I am not going to lose Soap, because he was Simon’s family and by extension mine._ ” Gaz choked back tears, aggressive wiping them off.

Price held Gaz’s hands firmly, planting a long and warm kiss on his cheek, “The only way we can manage this is to be a family, innit?”

“Yeah.” Gaz squeezed back.

* * *

 

_5:00 P.M._

Soap rubbed his eyes and yawned. He went really far in the game’s story but his eyes were starting to hurt. His reflection stared back at him from the TV. His face was still the same, but his eyes were sunken, his beard was messy, and his hair was wild and of varying length. Yet he was so surprised. ‘ _I’m a grown man but I hate it…?’_ He thought to himself, ‘ _I feel like I should be doing something else but I like playing video games and not being a normal civilian. At least I’m not spending money.’_

He reached to touch the screen. His fingerprints left a mark, since he literally used his hands to scoop the Portuguese rice out of the bowl into his mouth. ‘ _Maybe I shouldn’t talk. Price is still mad at me overhearing from the kitchen…’_ Soap was aware that Price apologized to him in the morning but he did nothing. _‘I don’t want Price to yell at me again and I don’t want to make Gaz sad.’_

He kind of liked Price and Gaz being pseudo-parents. _‘Maybe I’m bad.’_ His knowledge was contrary: he was not bad. He was a good guy. ‘ _I need Price or Gaz to get what I want’_ His previous experience says that he can get his own damned things. He sat down, eyebrows knitted deep in thought as he wrapped himself in the blanket. He wanted to get up, stretch, and used the bathroom but he just wanted to stay here.

Maybe he realized his childhood had a lot to be desired. Maybe he locked himself in for the warmth, protection, and fulfillment of needs. It was intoxicatingly comfortable despite his inner man yelling at him not too. He listened to both of these sides, possibly too intently to be healthy.

All he knows that is he needs his Pricey and Gazzie but not too much.

* * *

 

For the next few days, the Gaz and Price did some kind of tango with Soap. The former two lived as themselves but tried to keep Soap on board. Communication was now one-sided with a side of pantomimes. It took almost two weeks to have the Scotsman not recoil from Price. He often clung onto Gaz, but contact was bare minimum with Price.

Time outside even fell to the bare minimum.

The furthest Soap ventured from home was the Aldi a few clicks away. Price realized this is not normal.

“Soap, Gaz,” Price clapped his hands, “We’re going to the park.”

“Bloody finally,” Gaz muttered, going into the room to immediately change.

“Soap?” Price went into the youngest’s room, “We’re going outside.”

Soap was in his white shirt and boxers, still playing Super Mario Sunshine. In fact, he managed to lock himself in his room and beat the game. Maybe twice, three times already. It was a miracle that he still knew rudimentary self-care: showering, brushing his teeth, grooming, and shaving for someone who was in his room days at a time. It was a skirmish to change the sheets, but the video game distracted him enough for Price to take them away.

“Go change.” He locked the door and did so. Price walked out and started the Ford Focus.

* * *

 

The park was an expansive place. It was lined by a forest and loomed for kilometers on end. The grass was lush and verdant, and flowers lined every sidewalk. Hydrangeas, daffodils, lilies, dandelions and even roses near the randomly placed gazebos gave a much-needed pop of color to the place. There was benches everywhere and even two playgrounds, even a fitness machine area. In the center of the park was a deep and wide pond with a fountain in the middle.

Thankfully, it was a weekday so there were only pensioners and small children.

The three SAS veterans took a walk around the park, only enjoying each others’ company and not attempting to bait words out of Soap. Price tried to wrap his hand around Gaz’s waist, but Gaz glared at him and glanced at Soap. He slinked his hand away and put his hand on Soap’s shoulder.

Soap didn’t recoil but skittered forward. Price kept up.

**BICYCLE BICYCLE BICYCLE**

The three stopped in their tracks, staring at one another. They pulled out their phones to see. Gaz looked down nervously as he realized that it was phone ringing. ‘ _It’s the NHS. Go on ahead without me.’_ He mouthed to Price, shooing him away.

So it was Price and Soap alone walking. Price kept a watchful eye on Soap, letting him ride the swings on the playground when no else was around. He pushed Soap higher and higher, earning a giggle or two. After a while, Soap played on the monkey bars, while the captain shouted words of encouragement. It seemed to help because not once did Soap let go.

Soap then tried to ride an animal springer, only to fall flat on his face due to his weight.

Price laughed heartily at that one. Soap stuck his tongue out.

* * *

 

Pleased with the results, all three continued going to the park daily.

One day it was letting Soap run around the entire park. The other was playing on the playground and reprimanding any ignorant people. The other was sitting by the pond. The other was letting Soap play with the splinters on the gazebo. One day, Soap smuggled bread to feed the birds. Price reluctantly accepted that one and had a fun time doing it. One day they navigated the surrounding forest. Gaz boasted that they still had their navigational skills.

From only necessary touches, Price learned how to be softer for Soap. It evolved from basic touches, to hand-holding, to a slap on the shoulder, a tousle of his hair, and then a hug. He regaled Soap with stories about Captain MacMillain, shenanigans on base, what his life was before the SAS, and the gulag. Soap only emoted and not spoke.

Today would be different, with Gaz gone to deal with the NHS about Soap’s condition.

Soap was doing pullups, and he was strangely successful at it.

“Well you’re doing quite well for a lad who hasn’t done them in months,” Price complimented him. He managed to do some too, but he wasn’t going at the speed and intensity the youngest was going. Mid-pullup, Soap ran off to the see the ducks in pond.

“Right, spring’s arrived…” Price muttered as he slowly descended and followed. He went to the food machine, put in a few pences, and turned the crank, putting some seeds, rice, and nuts into a little baggie. “Bloody city ordinances.”

Soap was squatting at the pond, extending his hand to the ducks. He tried to pet them, but they snapped at his hand using their bills. He hissed in pain.

“Duck.”

“Yes, Soap, that’s a-“ Price stopped in his tracks, “You said a word. You _spoke._ ” He put a hand to his temple and whooped in joy, “You did it.” He whipped his phone out and started to record Soap.

“Duck.” Soap instantly went prone.

“We’re in a park. It’s okay,” Price gently petted Soap’s back, “Let’s sit up, okay?” Price sat down next to Soap, pulling him up so he can see the ducks better.

“Bloody duck,” He still hissed rubbing his hand in pain. Price stopped recording and gave some food to Soap.

“How about we feed them?”

“Okay.” He leaned onto Price, with one arm around his shoulder. He used the food to at first hit them but then their sad faces made him actually toss the seeds gently in their direction. “They hungry.”

“Well, let’s keep feeding them.”

* * *

 

“I hungry.”

“Me want Pricey.”

“This game.”

“Mine!”

“Me still think of Makarov and Shepherd.” The extent of Soap’s second grasp of the English language grew before the older two. Gaz dropped a bowl at that phrase.

“…They’re not here anymore, Soap.” Gaz spluttered.

“They haunt me dreams. Me see them when I close my eyes.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Me miss Ghost. Sometimes me want to be with him.”

“Me too,” Gaz picked up the bowl and cleaned it, voice low and sad. Soap hugged him.

“You miss Ghost?”

“Everyday.”

* * *

 

Soap, Price, and Gaz were now waiting at an office in the VA building. Weeks of calls and emails built up to this moment. The VA division of the NHS caught wind of Soap’s public breakdown at a Nando’s and put him as a priority patient. Soap had a more serious look on his face now, a face he hadn’t worn in a long time. All three were wearing slacks, sweaters, and polos. Yet Soap still clung onto Price in nervousness.

“That NHS lady was disrespectful. Tossing someone like me in to the NHS? I’ll just climb myself back out,” Soap’s voice was laced with spite.

“We’ll get you out if she does,” Price comforted him.

“Call it an extraction mission and it’ll be Es Es Dee Dee.” He chuckled.

“Soap MacTavish?” An intern in a white polo and blue slacks peeked out of the office.

“Present,” Soap stood on his own two feet. He and the rest followed him into the NHS lady’s office. The intern was a slight man with bushy hair and dropped her off at her desk. All three men sat in different chairs. The NHS lady was an obese, pale woman with some flowery blouse and beige stretch slacks. Her name tag said Maribelle.

“I’m assuming you’re John MacTavish, John Price, and Gareth Riley?” She brayed. The men nodded. “Cases of mental regression are incredibly serious and not to be taken on individually, yes?”

“I’m aware of the fact, but I can argue Soap is still quite functional despite the obvious effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Price answered with a hint of snark.

“I think MacTavish is to prove himself what kind of treatment to receive, mind you,” Maribelle spewed.

“Hence why we need a psychiatrist instead. Soap, er, MacTavish is still a regular person who just happens to be dealing with his battle scars. Not to be institutionalized like a potato,” Gaz argued.

“I’m the judge here to see how deep the PTSD has affected the man. I’ve yet to see the appropriate lingual ability to even deal with a therapist. MacTavish, do you care to explain your situation?”

Soap stood up, looking down on Maribelle, “First of all, Maribelle. You are incredibly condescending. You’re rather low to use my lowest point as evidence to institutionalize me. I have been rendered mute, but I’ve trudged on through to speak like a so-called proper civilian. It’s more struggle than you had. Second, I still have nightmares, breakdowns, and triggers such as loud noises and explosions, but I am perfectly capable of self-care and can contribute to society by cleaning up the park. I may be prone to depression, mental regression and anxiety, but I’m a hard bastard because I had a shit childhood. John and Gareth believed in me as soldier and now believe in me as a person. If this isn’t an argument for a psychiatrist, I don’t know what is.” He sat down, arms crossed with a smirk on his face.

“GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!”

* * *

 

“You just slaughtered that cow!” Gaz laughed.

“She deserved it,” Price agreed, “Let’s get some Nando’s.”

“Let’s make it cheeky, lads.” Soap ribbed Price and Gaz, grabbing both from their shoulders and drawing them in.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commissioned fanfiction from @Sandrotti. For more fics like this, you can check my commissions page on my tumblr.


End file.
